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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28943985">Hope is not an absolute</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/JadeSabre83/pseuds/JadeSabre83'>JadeSabre83</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Rhiona's Story [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Inbound Flight, Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Thrawn Ascendancy Trilogy - Timothy Zahn, Star Wars: Thrawn Series - Timothy Zahn (2017)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Emotional Hurt, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Inbound Flight shenanigans, Plotting with Queenie needs its own tag, So much angst, This smol OC is so screwed, this is basically just angst</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 04:22:36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,439</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28943985</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/JadeSabre83/pseuds/JadeSabre83</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Twenty minutes; that’s the amount of time that elapses between Rhiona regaining consciousness and the door to the holding cell opening. And that's just enough time to be reminded of a very important lesson— hope is not an absolute.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Rhiona's Story [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2158932</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Hope is not an absolute</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenieWithABeenie/gifts">Queenie Chi Cosplay (QueenieWithABeenie)</a>.</li>


        <li>
            Inspired by

            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28493898">Inbound Flight: For Home and Song</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenieWithABeenie/pseuds/QueenieWithABeenie">QueenieWithABeenie</a>.
        </li>

    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This really won't make much sense unless you're caught up on <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28493898/chapters/69820137">Inbound Flight: For Home and Song</a>, or if you also haven't read <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28862895/chapters/70802403">Deliverance</a> as well.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> Time, time is a fickle thing,<br/>
Let's see what it can bring. </em>
</p><p><em> —Shattered and </em> <em> Hollow</em>, First Aid Kit</p><p>~~~</p><p>Twenty minutes; that’s the amount of time that elapses between Rhiona regaining consciousness and the door to the holding cell opening (well, twenty-two minutes and seven seconds to be precise). But what’s twenty minutes to someone who has no frame of reference for the passage of time, someone who woke up this morning with the weight of the world finally lifted from their shoulders?</p><p>A span of a single heartbeat.</p><p>An entire lifetime.</p><p>Or just enough time to <em> completely </em> lose it.</p><p>The first coherent thought to filter through Rhiona’s mind is that she hurts; everywhere. It feels like she’s gone three rounds against a training droid in the dojo, except instead of that accomplished sort of exhaustion she’s used to she just feels <em> exhausted. </em>A pained whimper escapes her lips as she slowly gains her bearings—slow being the key word here. She’s slow to open her eyes, then she’s slow to raise a hand to her aching (throbbing) head.</p><p>Confusion hits her next.</p><p>Had she been sedated again?</p><p>There’s the general malaise, the fuzzy head and dry mouth, but something is...off. And not just the fact that it’s been at least two months since they had to sedate her. When her vision finally clears, that <em> something </em> smacks into her so fast and so hard that the room starts to spin when she shoots up on the bed.</p><p>The memories come in bursts; leaving the prison, the shuttle, a flash of blue followed by a body hitting the ground, then a flash of green and...</p><p>Vuiskelisa. It was his body hitting the ground. Vuiskelisa, her friend, the only one to get her through six months as a prisoner of war, her <em> brother </em>—</p><p>Dead.</p><p>
  <em> He’s dead. </em>
</p><p>Rhiona chokes out a sob as the full weight of his death finally takes hold; things had happened too quickly on the shuttle to really process it all. But now? Now it’s real. He’s dead and she’s, well, where the hell is she? </p><p>She glances around and it takes all of five seconds to come to a (horrible, terrifying) conclusion: this is a cell.</p><p>Is she back at the prison? Had it all been some sort of dream? Was there some sort of misunderstanding?</p><p>No; this cell is nothing like the one she had called home for six months, or even the isolation cell she had (very) temporarily been placed in. It’s too...too sterile, the walls, floor and ceiling a bright white. The light is too harsh, the bed is too uncomfortable, the cell itself too small. </p><p>It’s that final thought, that final assessment that triggers a wave of panic, her lungs seizing up as her heart threatens to give out.</p><p>
  <em> Rt'esah, Nala. </em>
</p><p>Vuiskelisa’s words, ones she heard dozens of times, ring loudly in her head. She has to breathe, has to calm down, has to figure this out. Shaking hands rip the thin sheet off the bed before wrapping it tightly around herself. It’s no blanket treatment; it lacks the comforting weight of a set of Chiss arms holding her, but after a few (several) five-count breaths she can feel some of the panic ebb away.</p><p>
  <em> Think, Rhiona. </em>
</p><p>She stands, shedding the sheet as she starts to pace. If this isn’t the prison, then where is she? Had the Mitth set her up?</p><p>“No. Eli <em> promised. </em> He <em> promised </em> that things were only gonna get better.” </p><p>The sound of her own voice, as unsteady as it is, serves as a comfort in the stillness of the cell. What’s <em> not </em> a comfort is the quick glance down at herself to reveal that the clothes she had (happily) changed into this morning—stylish, comfortable ones done up in the burgundy and grey of the Mitth—have been replaced with a sterile, white jumpsuit. </p><p>“Kriff.”</p><p>The curse leaves her mouth without any forethought, showing just how out of control she really is. Rhiona Lascelles does <em> not </em> curse, not even when she broke her arm when she was fourteen. In fact, none of the Lascelles children ever dared to curse, less they face the wrath of their momma. </p><p>But her momma ain’t here, the painful realization pulling another choked sob from her lips as her steps falter.</p><p>Did her momma even know that she was still alive? Was she praying for her safe return, making offerings to the gods and goddesses? Or was Rhiona’s name now etched on some memorial wall alongside the names of her brothers and her daddy?</p><p>Hot tears sting at Rhiona’s eyes, and she blinks them away before an overwhelming sense of dread grips her heart; what if she’s back with the Empire? What if they had found out about her cooperating, that she had (willingly) given the Chiss access to codes and encryption keys? It’s the scenario that makes the most sense; if Loorola was willing to kill one of her own then surely she would have no qualms with dealing with the Empire.</p><p>Being back in the grips of the Empire is a terrifying, bone chilling thought. One that seems almost second nature now, when a handful of months ago she wanted nothing more than to return. It’s also a thought that passes quickly; this isn’t the Empire’s doing. Maybe it’s the lack of injuries, or the fact that she’s not currently chained up in an interrogation room, but somehow, deep in the pit of her stomach, Rhiona knows that she’s not on an Imperial Star Destroyer.</p><p>And somehow, that’s even worse.</p><p>She can feel her tenuous grasp on some semblance of calm slip, feel any sense of relief or hope passing through her fingers. Because if there’s anything that truly scares her, anything that brings about such a visceral feeling of panic, it’s the unknown. </p><p>Rhiona <em> hates </em> the unknown. </p><p>Codes—the reliability of letters and numbers—is where she’s comfortable. They’re predictable. Absolute. </p><p>Hope is not an absolute; she’s learned that enough throughout her life, but especially the past few months. Today is the perfect example of that, her morning starting out with the promise of a new life, of a new <em> family</em>. And now? Now she has no idea where she is, or who has her, or what they want with her.</p><p>Tears stream down her face now, all pretenses of keeping it together forgotten. She approaches the door (barrier?), palms slapping against the cool surface with a slightly satisfying <em> thud</em>. It feels like some sort of transparisteel, except she can’t see through it. She slams her hands against it a few more times, hoping to get someone’s attention.</p><p>“Hello?” </p><p>Nothing, so she tries again in Cheunh. “Ritot?”</p><p>Still nothing, and while she’s not exactly in a rush to meet her hosts (captors), she’s also at the point of wanting to stop prolonging the inevitable.</p><p>“Ttis'ah!” Her voice takes on a desperate edge as she repeats the plea, over and over as she bangs against the barrier. “<em>Please. </em>”</p><p>Again, there’s nothing. Not even a harshly barked order to be quiet. She starts pacing again, back and forth and back and forth in the confined space, feeling like a caged nexu. Her hands clench into fists, her jaw set firm, and on one final pass she stops once more at the barrier to renew her efforts.</p><p>“Lemme out, dammit!” </p><p>She slams her fists against the barrier until her hands ache, hurling every insult she can think of, even a few she learned in Cheunh. And at first it, yet again, seems as though there’s no reaction, no one to hear her words. Then...</p><p>Footsteps.</p><p>Multiple sets of footsteps, rapidly approaching her cell.</p><p>Rhiona takes a deep, steadying breath, every muscle in her body tensed and ready to go thanks to a sudden surge of adrenaline. She may not know where she is or who has her or what they want with her, but she does know this: Rhiona Lascelles never goes down without a fight.</p><p>The door opens and Rhiona springs into action, flinging herself out into the corridor—</p><p>But hope is not an absolute; it’s a fleeting, fickle thing at best. And she can feel the hope fleeing her body as two sets of very strong, very <em> blue </em> hands wrap around her arms, feel the dread and the fear and the utter panic take hold as she meets a set of cold, uncaring red eyes.</p><p>And she knows, without a single ounce of doubt in her soul, that this group of Chiss is the enemy.</p><p>So she holds her head up high, and prepares for the fight of her life.</p>
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